“Everyone liked the gold,” Dido says, raising her voice to be heard. “They all used it last night, didn’t they?”

“Beronice certainly did,” Amara says, remembering the way Beronice had smeared it copiously around her eyes, and her fury when Victoria laughed at her. That’s what men in this stupid town expect Egyptian women to look like! Beronice had insisted, face sparkling like a temple statue. Amara cannot imagine how small Pompeii must feel to Beronice after growing up in a great city like Alexandria, although as a slave, perhaps she never saw much more than the house where she worked. Victoria and Cressa had shared the new pot too, but Amara suspects it will take more than gold paste to smooth over the others’ envy. The shift in power to the Wolf Den’s newest women has unsettled everyone. “Felix will want us to practice for Cornelius today,” she says. “We have to come up with some other songs.”

“We could always ask Salvius for help,” Dido says.

“I wouldn’t know where to find him. Do you think Nicandrus might know?”

“He runs the ironmonger’s, the one near Modestus’s bakery. I think he owns it. I spent time with Priscus that night when you were talking to Menander. He told me where they both work.”

Amara feels a sharp tap on her back and spins round, angry, expecting it to be the builder come down from the ladder to try his luck. A young girl steps back in alarm, clutching an enormous bucket to her hip.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you,” she says. “But aren’t you from the Wolf Den? I’m sure I’ve seen you both at the Elephant before.”

Amara looks at her. She sees eyes smudged with blue and shoulders stooped with exhaustion. A memory surfaces. The same slight girl scurrying between customers at the Elephant, a nervous smile on her face. “Yes. You’re the waitress, aren’t you?”

“Pitane,” says the girl. “I don’t just wait tables though.”

“No.” Amara remembers Victoria’s taunt to Drauca, about the customers she has to service as well as serve. She turns away, not wanting to think about her former rival or remember her suffering.

“It must be hard work,” Dido says kindly. “The Elephant is always so busy. Have you got friends there?”

“Martha. She was my friend. But she died in childbirth. Hazard of the job, isn’t it?” Pitane is staring at them both, desperation in her face, willing them to understand. “I guess you must both know all about that, about how to avoid it. Or how to . . .” She trails off.

End it, Amara thinks. “Is it avoiding, you want to ask about?” Pitane shakes her head. Amara glances down at the girl’s waist, taking in her thin figure. “There’s a woman you can see. But don’t wait too long.”

“You don’t keep anything yourselves?”